


heavy lies the crown

by Idday



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: His new husband is strong and tall, healthy and hale. The best swordsman in his kingdom. A prince in both birth and bearing. All of this, Connor’s advisors have already told him.The tales of him pale in comparison to the man himself.
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 155
Kudos: 645





	heavy lies the crown

**Author's Note:**

> As always--written for love but not for money, don't read if you are or know these people, etc. This is the highest of fiction.

I.

His new husband is strong and tall, healthy and hale. The best swordsman in his kingdom. A prince in both birth and bearing. All of this, Connor’s advisors have already told him. 

The tales of him pale in comparison to the man himself. 

Connor’s new husband is sitting astride a fine steed. He keeps a good seat, and he is indeed strong and tall, healthy and hale. They meet in the small spit of neutral grounds between their countries, and Prince John dismounts with ease, then performs a stiff bow. 

“Your Majesty,” he says. Both his words and gestures, while technically perfect, carry a certain air of indifference. 

Only a year ago, if they had met, Connor would have been but the second son, distracted by his training, unfocused on the minutia of his kingdom; Prince John the heir apparent to a flourishing realm, assured of his place. 

But Connor’s brother had taken ill, felled by the same fever that swept through their kingdom, had raced across the border and taken King Robert. And just as Connor found himself abruptly crowned, Prince John had found himself suddenly, by a single word in his father’s will, disinherited. 

Leon maintains that King Robert hadn’t meant it, that it was a simple accident of translation. Connor isn’t sure. Regardless, Her Majesty was crowned last month and it is now her brother who arrives in her stead to marry Connor in his own brother’s place, fulfilling their countries’ decades-old marriage pact. 

“Your Highness,” he returns, still mounted. Prince John regards him steadily. They’ve been married by proxy for nearly a month, now. Sir Leon had kneeled in Connor’s stead, next to a knight of Prince John’s guard. Presumably the one riding at his side now, who has also dismounted and bowed. 

_ Sir Noah of the bonny face, _Leon had said upon his return. The man in question certainly qualifies. 

“Prince John,” Connor calls. His voice carries over the wooded ground between them. “We are glad to have your in our kingdom at last. Please be as welcome as a brother prince and equal as you are welcome as a consort.” 

Prince John’s jaw works, quite like he doubts being welcomed at all. He bows again, says, “thank you, Your Majesty.” 

There will be a formal ceremony in a matter of hours. Connor bids his husband to remount and accompany him to the palace. When Prince John rides up beside him, he is at least as broad as Connor himself, and perhaps taller. 

II.

At their wedding mass, Prince John closes his eyes and clasps his palms and prays as fervently as Connor has seen any man do before. 

His palms are warm and dry when he clasps Connor’s hands. His lips, the same, when they share their marriage kiss. 

He has not yet heard more than four words from his husband, nor seen a smile. 

III. 

In the morning, Connor meets with his council. His husband does not join him. The hours drone by; Connor confesses to be somewhat distracted, attention pulled by the shouting and clanging ringing in from the courtyard. As prince, he had spent his mornings there, happily, while his brother was occupied with the more serious business of government. His focus, despite his best efforts at gravity, still wanders as his lords argue about droughts and taxes and roads. 

Freed from his duties at midday, Connor stretches and wanders into the sunlight to watch his guard spar. 

His husband is matching himself against Sir Leon, strike against strike. He is perhaps the better fighter—wilier, stronger, faster. Sir Leon is the best of his guard, and Connor does not know whether to feel pride or shame when he laughs and yields. 

He notices Connor, when the blades drop. “Your Majesty,” Sir Leon pants, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He bows, and the courtyard follows—even Prince John dips his head, the gesture looking unnatural. 

“Sir Leon,” Connor calls, “have you embarrassed my court by falling victim to my husband, or was this a chivalrous act to welcome him?” The word ‘husband’ sits thick on his tongue, though it is his to use. 

Prince John scowls at the implication, though Sir Leon laughs. “Regrettably, Your Majesty,” he says, “the prince’s victory was all too real. His skill is unmatched in his own kingdom and now I know it to be unmatched by any in ours, excepting perhaps yourself.” 

Connor itches to take up a sword and test himself against the prince—but such a match could only disgrace one or the other. 

“I am impressed,” he says to his new husband. 

The prince bows his head again, a fraction of an inch. “My sword is yours,” he says, drily. 

IV.

The marriage has been consummated, and consummated well. Connor finds himself shamefully attracted to Prince John, which should be a welcome relief after months of fretting about the arrangement. The prince’s obvious coolness towards him has dimmed his enthusiasm somewhat, though he had laid back and opened his legs easily enough on their wedding night. 

Perhaps Connor, thrust into a new kingdom and a new role, would be cool as well. He’d reminded himself of this as his husband had dozed next to him in the grey light of dawn, his face smooth and finally peaceful. 

Tonight, he looks surprised to see Connor at his door. His chambers are smaller and less grand than Connor’s own, if only by a fraction. Connor has not seen them used since his mother was taken in the plague more than a decade before. 

“Your Majesty,” the prince says, warily. His servants have been and gone; he’s dressed in his nightclothes already. 

“I thought,” Connor begins, and then looks away. He is king now, which he forgets more often than he ought. This marriage bed, like everything else in the kingdom, is his to do with as he wishes. 

“Of course,” the prince says, and sits on the edge of his mattress, waiting for Connor to approach. He seems to have done little else since his arrival, other than wait for Connor. React to him. Tonight at the meal, he’d not spoken unless spoken to. 

Connor’s been thinking of him all day—he'd spent the morning remembering the touch of his skin, the wet of his lips, and then the afternoon thinking of this shift of his arms as he’d sparred. 

The prince watches him draw closer. There is nothing open about his expression, but then Connor had been a second son once, too. Surely the prince has been told to please his husband and bother himself with little else. Surely it grates against him, who should have been king. 

“I enjoyed watching you fight, today,” Connor tells him. He longs to touch; he dares not. He steps into his husband’s space and watches him brace against it. “I’d been told how good you are. You’re better even than they say.” 

“Perhaps you should have tested yourself against me, then,” Prince John says. 

“Our alliance is new. I’d prefer not to trade blows with you yet.” 

“And what do you consider this, then, if not trading blows?” the prince asks, looking between them. He flinches when Connor cups his cheeks, but only just. Connor waits until his husband meets his eyes. 

“I’d hope for a happier ending,” he says. 

V.

If coupling twice—thrice perhaps, technically—is enough to establish a pattern, Connor is confident that his husband doesn’t detest the act as much as he pretends, coaxed though he must be in its initiation. 

He dozes again after, nose against Connor’s arm. Connor enjoys the sight of him—the span of his bare back, his strong legs, his feet cupped into each other as he rests. He’d cried out, when he came. A sound of pleasure. 

“Are you going to do this every time?” He mumbles, and Connor startles, caught. 

“Which part?” He asks. Surely, his husband can’t be asking if they’re expected to lay together again. It may be a marriage in name and not in affection, but a marriage it remains. 

“Stare,” the prince says, rolling over, and Connor enjoys a new sight. “You stared last night, as well. Surely I cannot be so very interesting to you.” 

“Perhaps my interest is piqued by having a husband to stare at,” Connor says, “as you are my first.” 

“Your interest will fade, Your Majesty. Interest within marriage always does.” 

“I’m sure my interest will last as long as my marriage,” Connor says. His husband has a dark smudge on his throat that was not there at dinner. “And perhaps in the interest of prolonging both, you could call me by my given name.” 

“How informal,” the prince says, and then, as though testing the word on his tongue, “Connor.” 

“I’ve never aspired to a formal marriage,” Connor says. He hesitates, and then finishes, “John.” 

His husband turns his back on him. “My family calls me Jack,” he says. “I suppose you might, as well.” 

VI.

A royal marriage spells days of feasting and dancing and masquerades. Connor cares little for the balls themselves, but morale is higher at court than it has been since his brother was King. 

Jack seems to share his disinterest, dancing infrequently despite the glances thrown his way by the dazzling ladies of the court. There are many; a new prince and expert swordsman is always a matter of interest, his stature only increased by his rank. 

He wears a circlet in his hair and sits at Connor’s right hand, and they do not speak much across their thrones but they watch the whirl of the dancers together and when Connor glances his way his gaze is steady. 

Married couples of their rank should sleep in their own chambers, yet every night Connor finds himself at his husband’s door. Jack never looks surprised to see him. Last night they’d coupled furious and fast; the night before had been quiet and slow. His husband returns enthusiasm where it is demonstrated, but never initiates a touch, a word, a moment. 

Connor puts his fingers to his husband’s wrist, a test, and shortly Jack turns his hand over until their fingertips touch. 

“Dance with me,” Connor says, and neither of them know who should lead but the court applauds when they rise. 

VII. 

They’re well matched in every area. Jack is the better marksman with a bow, keeps a stronger seat on his horse. He’s stronger by a pound and taller by an inch. Connor thinks that he would find himself the better fighter, more agile and quicker on his feet, but will not allow himself to test the theory. He cannot allow himself to win and cannot allow himself to lose. 

They hunt, infrequently, but there is a state banquet and a need for a boar so they saddle their horses and ride out with the party. The clouds are low and gray and threatening with rain. 

They spear a boar but only minutes before the rain begins, pelting down so heavily that Connor can scarcely see the trees before him. The servants have begun hauling the boar back to the kitchens; Sir Leon looks wet and miserable on his mount. “The hunting cabin is closer,” he points out, and so Connor steers his horse back into the woods. 

“There’s a small house, a short ride from here,” he shouts over the rain when Jack shoots him a querying look. “It will be a dry place to wait out the storm.” 

The four of them make good time without the rest of the party—Connor and Jack and Sir Leon and Sir Noah, who shadows Jack almost everywhere he goes. He scarcely speaks a word to Connor but he shares enough wry looks with Sir Leon that Connor feels certain he has a higher humor than he lets on. 

The cabin is cramped but dry, as promised, and Sir Leon makes quick work of a fire in the hearth. 

“Come,” Connor tells Jack, who leaves a trail of wet footprints across the floor as he follows Connor to the single room at the back of the building—a small, dank bedchamber. “You can find dry clothes in the wardrobe, though they may be large.” 

They are large, of a rough cloth and a dubious age. The cabin hasn’t been occupied regularly since Connor’s father was on the throne, though his brother had maintained the structure for his own use hunting. For women as often as for game, if the tales of the court are true. 

“I suppose the owner will not miss his garment,” Jack says, even as he slips his own sodden tunic over his head. “Seeing as the moths have made good work of it already.” 

“The owner of that garment has not needed it since five years hence,” Connor says. He watches his husband strip off keenly and does not make much a secret of it. “My father never found another tenant for the lodge.” 

There is one other shirt in the wardrobe, more moth-eaten than the last. Connor takes it regardless. “He was from your country, the last hunter in this lodge,” he says. “He used to tell us stories.” 

Jack sits on the edge of the bed, looking perhaps more interested than Connor has ever seen him. 

“And what did he tell you?” 

“Fairy tales, mostly,” Connor admits. “I was young. Indeed, when I met your father the first time I half expected him to be eight feet tall, as it was said that your people had descended from giants. He was tall, but not so much as I expected.” 

“Not so tall as me, even,” Jack says, with half a wry smile, “which pained him greatly. What else did you hear?” 

Among the common people, the land to the south is thought of as warlike and even barbaric, strange in its similarity to Connor's land and equally strange in its stark differences. His advisors have commented on its climate—warmer than Connor’s land, with crops that grow longer and people that do not go hungry or cold but remain fearful of political turbulence. Jack’s father had been crowned only months after Connor’s had, following years of civil war. The marriage pact was meant to assuage fears and guarantee stability for both new monarchs—the eldest daughter of one land bound to the heir of the other. 

Then Connor’s brother had died and King Robert’s will had been read. 

Connor does not share what Jack surely knows. “Your people are the greatest warriors in the world, he told me. Though they battle with each other, they do not fear outside armies and when the king calls the men from all of the great families together they cannot be bested.” 

“A generous assessment.” 

“Your crops grow larger than I have ever seen in fields with my own eyes,” Connor continues. Jack is smiling now, perhaps for the first time since their marriage. “Your craftsmen are so talented that their wares are sought in every kingdom known to man and considered the finest that money can buy.” 

“I think perhaps our crops are not so much finer than yours,” Jack says, “though I will concede that we do produce a great many fine objects for trade.” 

“Perhaps the finest is here with me,” Connor says, and puts his thumb to his husbands lips just as the smile falls off it. 

“You had best save your pretty words for the ladies of the court,” Jack says, and stands. Their difference in height is negligible but does not feel it. “I fear they are lost on me.” 

VIII. 

The day before the first snow falls, a rider arrives from the south bearing tidings of another wedding. Jack receives the missive with little surprise. 

“He is somewhat dim, though kind enough,” he says, and puts the note in Connor’s hand. It is penned by the queen herself and begins _my dear brother—_Connor does not read on. “If I know my sister, she would prefer a dim man to a conniving one. He is a fine warrior and will father hearty sons. Their children will descend from the two greatest families in the land.” 

“A popular choice, I suppose,” Connor says. 

“Not for those councilors whose sons were slighted,” Jack muses, and drinks deeply from the cup in front of him. He has not dined in his own rooms, nor slept there, for nearly a fortnight. He no longer even pretends to retire there to await Connor’s summons. “Though when she bears an heir I suspect goodwill may be in good supply.” 

“Is a son the sole purpose of a wedding, in your country?” 

Jack regards him steadily. 

“Is it not, in yours?” 

IX.

Winter wears on; Connor attends to his council most mornings and his husband most evenings. Those in the palace eat well while these is talk of a famine in the snow-struck northern regions but suffer a plague along with with the citizens of the capital. Jack is taken briefly ill but soon recovers. Fearing contamination, Connor is strictly forbidden from visiting his sickbed. 

Connor takes pride in his husband’s joyous reception by the court as he once again returns to public duties—that he is well-liked by nearly all of their number has become evident. Connor’s own reaction to his husband’s renewed health is no less exuberant than his court’s, though perhaps rather more passionate. 

Connor’s birthday arrives with another foot of snow and new court gossip that his husband has lately been spending a great deal of time with one of Connor’s lesser knights. His birthday feast becomes an ordeal during which he drinks rather more than he ought and pays too much attention to the path of his husband’s gaze. 

Tipsy off ale and a barrel of wine fetched from the cellar, he bids his husband retire with him long before the feast is over and relies on his shoulder to hold steady on the walk up. 

Jack does not send for servants; instead he begins to make quick work of Connor’s shirt when he perches on the edge of their bed. 

“When you lie with me,” Connor asks him, “do you think of another?” 

“No.” His face is so impassive. Connor longs to know what he thinks. 

“There is a rumor—” 

“Listening to nasty gossip,” Jack says firmly, “is the best way to make yourself miserable. I will not humor it except to say that the gentleman in question was demonstrating his region’s particular fencing style to occupy my days during the long winter. Nothing more.” 

For a moment, Connor is chastened. Jack’s hands are tugging on his shirt now, knuckles against his bare skin. He touches Connor of his own accord so infrequently that the most innocent brush of his fingers pulls Connor’s attention to the sensation of their skin touching at each hot point of contact. 

“Are you happy?” The question bursts from him unwanted. He should not have asked, for he fears the answer. 

Jack does not speak for a moment, hands intent on his work. “I am not unhappy,” he says. 

“But are you content?” 

He does not speak again. Finally Connor bites out, “tell me true. I would rather have it from you now than from my courtiers later.” 

“I am useless here,” Jack says, after a moment. He has pulled the shirt over Connor’s head and holds it in his hands, crumpled. “You said yourself, once, that I was an object of trade. My purpose has been accomplished, the marriage has been made. My sister rests secure in her kingdom and you in yours and I must sit, as if an object, doing nothing, day after day. I am good for more than—" 

He is pacing short circles, now. Finally he rounds back on Connor. “Surely,” he says, voice measured in an intentional way meant to disguise its shaking, “surely I can be put to better use than simply training for a war that may not happen and fucking for an heir that cannot come.” 

Before Jack had ever come, Leon had said—_you must give him something to do. _

_ Never forget_, he had said, _while you were off training for your brother’s wars, the prince was educated to rule. He cannot be happy idle in another man’s court. _

“You are not useless,” Connor says, “not to me.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Jack’s face does not soften. 

“Come,” Connor says, head spinning. The problem is best solved in the morning. The prince is best kept in his bed. Connor’s skin still burns with his touch. 

“I will make you happy,” he says softly, once Jack has settled in. “I have vowed to.” 

“You vowed to be faithful, to love and to honor,” Jack says. His back is to Connor. “Happiness did not enter into the discussion.” 

X.

The morrow brings another long meeting. Connor instates his husband in the chair across his and ignores the grumblings of one particular faction. 

“I have asked His Highness the prince to offer his esteemed advice,” he says, and hears no more. 

Connor finds his perspective prudent and sound. He is more decisive than Connor himself but less prone to passion for given causes. He deftly maneuvers a trade squabble in the capital and a property dispute in the west. 

Connor’s own morning is much improved by the view. 

“Wisely done,” Leon whispers at dinner. Jack is engaged in a lively debate with Sir Noah—his smile is unexpectedly bright. 

“The prince was educated to rule,” Connor parrots back to him. “I believe it makes him happy to be useful.” 

“Just him?” 

“It makes me happy, to see him so,” Connor admits. 

“And me, to have Sir Noah more available to train with,” Leon says, and raises his glass. “To happiness all around.” 

XI.

With spring comes the expectation of a progress. 

The planning has occupied the long months since his coronation: stays at the castles and manors of his liege lords, camps assembled in the countryside, tours through each city. 

He has not undertaken his own tour since assuming the crown, nor has he truly introduced his husband to his subjects. The last monarch seen by most of his people was his brother, and Connor is determined to make an impression for himself. 

They set off early on a fine, chilly morning. Connor’s scouts ride ahead; he refuses the carriage and mounts his horse, his husband and their knights falling in line behind. 

He tolerates the solitude for a half-morning. “Ride up with me,” he asks when they stop to water the horses. 

Jack is rubbing the nose of his steed; he starts when Connor approaches. 

“I cannot.” 

“I am asking you to.” 

“You must take precedence, Connor,” Jack says lowly. “It would not be proper, and I cannot ride up with you.” 

“You must.” 

“I will not,” Jack snaps. “Your people would not stand for it, nor should they. A foreign prince, riding at your right hand? You must demonstrate yourself to be set above.” 

Connor stills Jack’s hand with his own. “And if I wish to demonstrate that you are to be respected as my equal?” 

“But I am not your equal, Your Majesty. I know that, as do all of your subjects.” 

Connor considers for a moment. Jack refuses to look at him, cheeks pink. “Mount up,” he calls to the group, and then says to his husband. “I wish you to ride up with me. I will order, if I must.” 

“What?” 

“I have matters of the realm I wish to discuss and I must speak with you. I wish to present you to my subjects and will do so as I see fit. Furthermore, I set precedence and if I choose to ride even with a turkey I will do so.” 

Jack sets his jaw. “I think you are foolish.” 

“But you will obey?” 

“I will,” he says. Connor kisses him, then, in full view of their mounted court. It is short and chaste but makes his husband’s face redden. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. 

He mounts his own horse, and Jack follows, pulls up even at his right side. Sir Leon raises his eyebrows. Connor ignores him, and calls, “we must make good time to reach the manor house before dark.” 

XII. 

The cot in their tent is oversmall for two grown men. Jack has his own lodgings—should have his own—but it seems more trouble than it is worth for Connor’s men to erect the tent each night only for it to remain empty. The third night of the progress, Connor had ordered it kept packed away. Jack had not said anything to the contrary, though the men had exchanged glances. Strange for a King—even a married King—to wish to share such cramped quarters. 

But wish he does. 

He wakes early in the morning, the sky just paling gray with dawn. Outside are the low sounds of women readying fires for breakfast, the rustling of a sentry change. There are hours yet before he is expected to rise, but he should anyhow—tend to the correspondence waiting for him or oversee his guard. 

Jack is sleeping steady, curled towards him. In the chill of the morning, he feels very warm. His arm across Connor’s chest is a heavy weight; were Connor to rise now, he might well wake him. 

Connor blinks, eyes heavy, turns on his side towards Jack. Their knees knock, but Jack doesn’t stir. Connor hesitates, then presses his face to Jack’s chest, nose to sternum, arms curled between them like furled wings. Jack has only an inch on him but Connor feels much smaller cradled within the curve of his body. 

Connor sleeps; he wakes again with the sun higher in the sky and Jack standing nude at the washbasin splashing water over his face. 

“Come,” Connor says softly, extends an arm when Jack turns at the sound of his voice. 

Jack obeys and Connor watches him, the movement of his body. 

“We haven’t much time,” Jack tells him, “not if you hope to reach the next manor before nightfall.” 

“I just want to look,” Connor lies. Jack straddles his thighs, settling easy in his lap. Connor strokes over the skin he can reach—chest, stomach, flank, thigh. 

“You haven’t tired of me yet?” Jack asks. 

“I won’t.” 

“You will,” Jack says, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t touch. Simply lets Connor trail fingers up his inner thigh. “I know that look,” he says, after a moment. Connor is hard, ready to couple, but they haven’t the time. 

“Which?” Connor asks him. 

“You looked the same yesterday, poring over your maps. Looking at your counties and rivers and roads. Marking your territory. You look the same at everything that belongs to you.” 

Connor stills his hands. “I am certain I do not examine rivers and roads with as much passion.” 

“It’s in your eyes. You enjoy possessing what other men don’t.” 

“Other men don’t possess you,” Connor agrees, with a degree of satisfaction. “And I do not, either. Or if I do, it is only as a husband belongs to his spouse and not as a statue belongs to a man. If you do belong to me, surely I belong to you.” 

Jack watches him. He is so cool; Connor craves his warmth. He has had flickers of it, on occasion. Not often enough. Had he the time, he would spend days and weeks seeking it out, hoping to fan it into a flame. 

“You are the king. You belong to your subjects. Each one of them has parts of you.” He circles Connor’s wrists with his hands. Another statement with which Connor cannot disagree. 

“But you have the most,” Connor says. “The best parts. I want you to have them. I am giving them to you.” 

He pushes up on an elbow, tugs Jack to him. Jack lets him kiss, opening his mouth. 

At the door to the tent, a servant pushes in, blushes at their state. Jack rises from the cot, leaving Connor to pull the linen over his lap. 

“Begging your pardon,” the boy says, “Sir Leon has bid me fetch you to begin preparations for today’s progress.” 

“Thank you,” Connor says. Jack has pulled on breeches, reaching for his shirt. It is not lost on Connor, that Jack never replied to him. Never accepted what was being offered. 

XIII. 

They pause of an afternoon near a small village in the north. Sir Leon leads a group to the market for supplies while Connor attends to state business and Jack strips off his shirt to practice sparring with Sir Noah within a distracting vicinity. 

“I bear great tidings, along with great amounts of bread,” Leon says upon his return. Connor is bored with papers and closes his box. Jack and Noah have retired into the tent; Leon picks up one of their discarded training swords and quirks his head. Connor could use the exercise and takes up a stance opposite him. 

“Tell me of your tidings, then,” Connor says, after he has won the first quick spar. 

“The people in the market can talk of nothing but Your Majesty’s court and Your Majesty’s husband.” 

“Indeed?” 

“I believe he is well-liked,” Leon says. Connor is so startled that he drops his defense and receives a stinging blow to the side. Leon laughs, and carries on. “It is said by those who have seen him pass on the road that he will wave at the children and give alms to those who ask, greatly endearing him to the people. His foreign accent and manners are a source of novelty and great discussion. More than one young lad has already taken to fashioning their clothes in his favored style. But most importantly—" 

“More important than clothes?” Connor says, as Leon yields the match. 

“Indeed, for it is said that you are madly in love with him.” 

Connor keeps his sword up this time, if only just. “Is that so,” he says. His face feels hot, which he is sure has not escaped Leon’s notice. 

“It is said among the common people,” Leon says, swinging his sword in one hand lazily, “that you did not leave your marriage bed for a full three weeks following the ceremony.” 

“Extraordinary,” Connor says drily, “They have strong faith in my stamina.” 

“It is said in the markets,” Leon continues gleefully, “that you were scarce seen all winter, but that the chill did not bother you.” 

“Indeed?” 

“For the warmest place in the castle is in the Prince Consort’s bed, and the warmest place in the Prince Consort’s bed is between his thighs.” 

“That is quite enough,” Connor says, his face aflame. “Speak not of my husband as though he belongs in a common brothel.” 

“Simply reporting back, Your Majesty,” Leon says, and then sobers. “Although there are some that fear he may use his influence to sway you to support his sister’s reign overmuch, his reputation is of a fierce warrior and a reasoned prince. There may be a vocal faction that is unhappy that he sits on your council, but many more are happy to see him there.” 

“I, too, find him reasoned,” Connor says, “though we rarely discuss politics outside of council.” 

“No,” Leon says, and lifts his sword, executing a pretty series of steps, “I imagine your mouths are otherwise occupied.” 

XIV. 

The country’s northernmost castle is a hulking, ancient fortress, a remnant of the former century, but it shelters a pretty town and is occupied by a loyal family. It was always his brother’s favorite castle. On his own inaugural progress, he had spent nearly a month here. 

It’s been more than a fortnight of riding. Connor understands the appeal of a respite. 

“Your Majesty,” Lord Stone calls across the courtyard as Connor dismounts, and then to Jack, who has followed him, “Your Highness.” 

“Lord Stone,” Connor says, “it has been too long.” 

“Indeed,” the lord says, “We have prepared the best chamber for Your Majesty and other fine rooms for your husband the prince and your court. A feast is prepared for this evening for your pleasure.” 

“I thank you for the welcome,” Connor says, “but you needn’t turn your family out of their chambers. My husband will sleep in my room and my knights are happy to assemble tents in the courtyard.” 

From the corner of his eye, Connor sees Sir Leon nod his agreement. Jack’s mouth twitches, and the lord badly hides a raised eyebrow in his bow. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” 

The lord introduces them to his wife and a stair-step set of children. There is a boy in the courtyard as well, younger and more golden than the rest of the brood. 

“I had not remembered a fourth son,” Connor comments. 

“You are correct, Your Majesty. The boy is my ward and not my son, though we raise him as our own.” 

“Hello, there,” Jack says, kneeling to eye level. The boy blushes and hides his face against the skirts of his nurse. “What is your name?” 

“We call him Collin,” Lord Stone says when he doesn’t answer. “His own dear mother never named him.” 

“A sad story,” Jack says, straightening. 

“The usual story, I’m afraid. The mother was a girl of good character but little wealth; the father was of much higher standing and was called away before the pregnancy became apparent. She died in labor. I would not think the father even knew of him, but we receive an allowance for the boy’s keep and education monthly.” 

“He is remiss, then,” Connor says. “Surely he could have returned to claim the child.” 

The lord bows his head. “Alas, I believe circumstances have prevented his doing so. I am sworn to secrecy about his identity, but I feel sure that the man in question is of high enough character not to have abandoned the child willingly.” 

“I would hope no man would,” Jack says. “A child is a gift which not all are lucky enough to receive.” 

XV.

The evening is passed in a spirit of merriment. Lord Stone is a good host and Connor’s retinue is hungry for company beyond their own members. Jack spends much of the feast occupied in entertaining the children of the house before they are whisked off to bed—dancing with the eldest daughter, playing dinner games with the younger sons. He pays particular attention to the young ward, who blossoms under his attention. 

“You seem enamored of the children,” Connor says, after they have retired. The chamber Lord Stone has prepared is comfortable and cozy, a fire burning in the hearth as it does year-round to keep out the northern chill. The bed is piled high with furs, and Connor longs to see his husband among them. 

“They are charming.” 

“Not all children are, but you like them all the same,” Connor says, and it is true—his husband is as disposed to smile at peasant children as at the sons of lords and always spares a word for children even if they are in the throws of a great tantrum. 

“I always expected to be a father, I suppose,” Jack says, and turns the furs down to crawl beneath them. “Any marriage to be entertained for me was for the purpose of producing heirs.” 

“Surely that cannot be the only reason for a wedding,” Connor says. It smarts for reasons that Connor does not fully understand, that Jack longs so for children. There is a small table near the bed with a jug of wine set out that Connor makes quick use of. 

“A son is the sole purpose of a wedding across the globe,” Jack says. “For while it may do for the common folk, nobility cannot marry without thinking of children. That is why our marriage is the source of such interest in the court.” 

The court does not gossip in front of Connor; he resents somewhat the implication that his marriage is tainted by the lack of a womb. “I am not so stupid as I may look,” he says, smarting. “I understand the mechanics of childbearing. Our marriage did serve another purpose, I suppose, in preventing whatever bloodshed would surely have followed had one of us broken the pact.” 

Jack watches him with no small amount of interest. “Forgive me,” he says finally. “I do not think you stupid. Simply, the issue of succession weighs heavy on my mind. I rather wonder that it does not seem to have crossed yours.” 

“It has crossed my councilors’ enough for us all,” Connor retorts, and refills his glass. “We are young and hearty. An heir, in some form or another, will come.” 

“Even young men die,” Jack says. “Surely your brother had thought he may father children to take the crown upon his death.” 

“He may have,” Connor says, “perhaps he had already and they live in the world even now. But they are illegitimate if they exist, for he could not be restricted to the marriage bed. Even your own father thought it wisest to wait until he had settled into greater maturity to formalize the wedding with your sister.” 

“One prince willing to father children but unwilling to take a spouse; one with a marriage but no ability to produce heirs,” Jack says. “A great curse for your land.” There is something in his voice that indicates he may be teasing. 

Connor sips his wine again. He has had, perhaps, too much. “You worry so about the heir to my kingdom,” he muses, “yet you gave up the crown to your own.” 

Jack regards him, all humor gone from his face. “I did not do so lightly.” 

Connor flushes, then. “I did not mean to imply that you did. Only to understand.” 

Jack looks away. The fire has fallen; in a moment, Connor will need to stoke it. It shades his husband’s face in grays and reds and Connor is fascinated by the planes of it. 

“I shall tell you, if you would like to hear it,” Jack begins, after a moment. Connor nods, and Jack continues, “It has been the custom in my country, as I believe it is in yours, for the eldest son to inherit property and title no matter the number of sisters that he has. When I was born, though my sister was older, the assumption was made that I would be sole heir and indeed, my father raised me as such. My sister was guaranteed rank through the pact with your country, and had she fallen victim to illness or accident, the next-oldest spare child would have taken her place and married your heir.” 

“My brother,” Connor offers. 

“Yes, at that time. But my father died unexpectedly. He was no longer a young man, but he was healthy and strong. Though my mother had died before they had more children, peace seemed assured. Even after word of your brother’s death reached the court, my sister was preparing to ride north to marry you after your period of mourning. 

“When my father died, and his will was read—he had not clarified there, who was to be his heir. It said only that his eldest child was to inherit the throne. It is believed that he made the will while he was young, likely while my mother was pregnant with their first child. His reign was new and tenuous and he sought to guarantee peace no matter what should come by ensuring an heir was named in his will, but he did not have the foresight, or perhaps the chance, to change the inheritance to pass to his eldest son after the birth of his children but before his own death.” 

Jack pauses for a moment. 

“There were those in our country—in our court—who still believed that I had the better claim. Surely my father could not have meant for his daughter to inherit, and I believe perhaps they were right. But his will was formal and unimpeachable and the greatest legal scholars in our court could not see a way around it.” 

“Surely—” Connor begins. 

“Perhaps you cannot understand,” Jack says. “In your country, father has passed crown to son peacefully for generations. But in mine—when our last king died, before my father took the throne, he left no clear heir. Battles were waged and blood was spilled, brother against brother, to determine who should take the throne. Even after my father was crowned, factions remained, families who hated each other and plotted against each other. There were some who would have supported my claim, some who would have supported my sister’s. Perhaps even just for the sake of disagreeing with each other. 

“My sister was not inclined to rule, but we agreed what must be done. Even if we were willing to raise arms against each other, to sacrifice the lives of our countrymen, defying my father’s will could only spell trouble by setting a precedent for future rulers who wished to disregard their predecessors’ wishes.” 

“And so you agreed to renounce your claim,” Connor says softly. He drains his cup. “You, who were meant to be king.” 

“Yes,” Jack says. “And you, who were not—you took the crown that your brother left behind.” 

“I do not think I sacrificed half as much,” Connor says. He rises to stoke the fire himself, as much to buy himself a moment without his husband’s keen eyes upon him as to encourage the flames. “I wonder if I love my sibling half so much, or my country.” 

“You sacrificed your dreams,” Jack says, “You were meant to be the greatest warrior in your brother’s armies. I have observed the way you look at your knights as they train. You cannot hide your desire to spar with them, and though you may yet lead your armies to battle you know you cannot seek glory the way you once would have.” 

“A very little sacrifice indeed,” Connor says. 

He does not return to his seat, but instead pauses in front of his husband. Jack has to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. 

“May I confess?” Jack asks lightly, “I had calculated that your country would call off the wedding, release us from the pact. How could you be blamed, knowing that heirs were an impossibility? I would have married a noblewoman or minor princess, you the same. I did not dream you would still have me.” 

Connor reaches out, presses a thumb to Jack’s lips. Jack does not flinch back from him. More often now he leans in, instead. “May I confess?” He echoes. “I was glad, when word came that you were to take the marriage vows in your sister’s place.” 

“Impossible,” Jack says. 

“Much to my council’s chagrin—much to my brother’s—the ladies of the court have never held much appeal to me.” 

“Indeed,” Jack says, and his tongue touches the pad of Connor’s thumb. Connor shudders. 

“Yes, indeed. I know you hated to come, but to me you seemed a miracle.” 

For a moment, they regard each other. Jack’s mouth is just opened, a hot point of contact between them. Connor wants to push inside, wants to break Jack open everywhere and examine him, understand him, possess him. 

“When you were younger,” Connor says, “perhaps you don’t remember. You visited our court, with your father and your sister, who was meant to meet her future husband. She was occupied with my brother and your father with mine. And you would not speak to me, though I was desperate for it. You liked my brother much better, and it pained me.” 

“I remember,” Jack says, and reaches a hand up to Connor’s waist. He touches of his own accord so rarely, Connor treasures the moment. When Jack tugs him closer, Connor goes, an inelegant sprawl across the furs and his husband’s body. “I thought you arrogant, as you did not greet us when we arrived and spoke only two words to me while we were there.” 

“I was cripplingly shy,” Connor retorts, “and you so confident. You challenged my brother to wrestle and then beat him in front of the court. I longed for you to pay me that much attention.” His face is warm; he is sagging into his husband’s embrace, drinking in his upturned face. He both longs for another drink of wine and feels he has already overindulged. “I thought you were all that a young prince should be. When you left I went to our knights and begged to train for combat as you did.” 

“I thought you hated me,” Jack says. 

“No,” Connor says softly. “I liked you. I like you still. I think perhaps you do not, but. I like you very much.” 

Around his waist, Jack’s arm tightens a fraction. “I should beg your forgiveness,” he says, “for being an unbearable child.” 

“Freely given,” Connor says, “and I yours, for the same crime.” 

Jack nods at him. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are soft. He’s bearing Connor’s weight. “I had not thought I would,” he says, “but I do like you, after all.” 

Connor closes his eyes. It is so little, but so much. Jack kisses him, then, softly. Tentatively. Connor doesn’t believe that his husband has ever kissed him before. He trembles and opens his mouth, lets Jack deepen the kiss without pressing back into him. 

Jack pulls back. After a long moment, Connor opens his eyes and finds his husband looking at him still, face only a few inches away. 

“Shall we sleep?” He asks. 

Jack touches his cheek. “No,” he says. 

XVI. 

Connor sleeps late the following morning. The bed is cool and empty, though a servant has been in to build the fire. Connor wonders if they had seen him tangled together with his husband, both naked, and flushes at the thought. 

They have coupled dozens of times, but the memory of the previous night makes him warm, the way Jack had returned his embraces. When Connor had gasped,_ I want to be inside you, _Jack had not merely rolled onto his belly; instead he had murmured, _yes, _had kissed Connor with an enthusiasm that he had not known his husband could possess. 

He hears his husband’s voice before he enters the courtyard, pauses at the sound of it. “That’s it,” Jack is saying, softly, “I won’t let you fall.” 

It’s a tone that Connor’s never heard from him before, tender, like Jack cares deeply about the person to whom he is speaking. Immediately the warmth of last night’s tepid declarations leaves him, his heart seizes—he thinks briefly of a woman, richly dressed. There are many, in the castle, summoned for a royal stay. Who else could earn his husband’s regard so quickly? 

But when Connor rounds the corner, it is not to find his husband locked in a lover’s embrace. Instead, he sees the boy—Lord Stone’s young ward, Collin—aside Jack’s huge steed, his husband mounted behind him holding the boy’s small body tight to his own. 

“There,” Jack tells him. “Nothing to be afraid of.” 

The boy is so small that his legs bob outward over the breadth of the horses’ shoulders. Jack’s palm over his hands on the reins looks huge. He looks immensely fond. Connor’s heart beats again, double time. 

“Good morning,” he calls. 

“Hello,” Jack returns, and then to the boy, “Collin, say good morning to the King.” 

Collin flushes, turns his head aside into Jack’s chest. Connor can sympathize with his shyness. 

“It’s alright,” he tells the boy. Jack brings his horse up short; Connor is forced to look upwards into his face. “Isn’t he a bit young for this?” 

“He asked to see my horse at breakfast. I said he could come up for a turn about the courtyard. I won’t let anything happen. Besides, it’s well beyond time that he had a pony and learned to keep his own seat. Surely you were riding, at his age.” 

“I suppose,” Connor says. The boy can’t be much older than three, but all boys of good birth learn to ride young. “He looks much smaller than I remember being.” 

“He’s a strong boy, big and healthy,” Jack says, ruffling his hair. “I’ll speak to Lord Stone about the matter before we leave. If he does not have a pony that will do, we can send one north. Here, help him down.” 

In one motion, Jack swings the boy off of the horse and into Connor’s arms. He’s denser than Connor would have thought, warm and compact. Jack swings down from the horse himself and the boy reaches for him eagerly. 

Jack takes him back, a strange look in his eyes. “What is it?” Connor asks. 

Jack shakes his head. “For a moment—I’m simply being overly sentimental. He’s a sweet boy and he bears you a striking resemblance. I ought to return him to his nurse. Learning letters is just as important as riding.” 

The last bit he says to the boy, who turns his face into Jack’s chest again. 

“Come,” Jack says, as a page appears to take his horse. “You must break your fast, and I must speak to the Lord of the manor.” 

XVII. 

They are a few days ride from returning to the capital when word first comes of skirmishes on the eastern border. 

The casualties are minor, but more worrisome for the fact that the attacks come from a neighbor with whom Connor signed a peace treaty just last year. 

“A counterattack would mean war,” Connor worries. Word has come just as he is finishing his evening meal, shared with his husband in their tent. It is late, and his councilors have retired. Connor does not desire to wake them at this hour but has resolved to convene them in the morning. “But I cannot leave the border undefended. That stretch of land has long been disputed and I cannot leave it vulnerable to invasion.” 

“Diplomacy dictates that you must write to the King and remind him of your treaty,” Jack says, “there is a chance, however slight, that the invaders are not sanctioned by the crown.” 

“I doubt that very much,” Connor spits. “The treaty was grudgingly signed and he has long desired a victory against us.” 

“I do not rate him highly,” Jack agrees. “The strength of your country has recently been bolstered by our marriage and the ensuing alliance between you and my sister, and her position made stronger as well. He finds himself suddenly in a position of dubious power with few friends and no doubt hopes to demonstrate his might through conquest. Still, the perception that you have invited war by attacking will not serve you. Send troops to the border to protect your interests with strict orders not to attack and pursue diplomacy until you receive a formal declaration of war.” 

He speaks with great passion, cheeks flaming. Connor has never seen him speak so hotly. 

“At least,” he says, when Connor does not answer. “That is the course that I would pursue. As it is your kingdom, you must choose your own methods.” 

“I appreciate your council,” Connor says. “It is sound, and I will follow it.” 

Jack nods his head, still looking chagrined. 

“I hope you know,” Connor says softly, once they have retired to bed, “I value your opinion, and welcome it freely. I do not wish for you to censure yourself, even in matters of state.” 

“There are those that would say such matters do not concern me any longer,” Jack says. 

“They are wrong,” Connor tells him. “If I did not seek your council, I would be a fool to ask for it. As it is, I would be a fool to disregard it.” 

XVIII. 

The border skirmishes do not cease, and Connor’s letters go unanswered. They have not been settled back in their palace for a fortnight before it becomes clear—Connor must lead an army against his enemy, or suffer the full blow of defeat. 

The formal declaration of war is signed with great solemnity. 

It is a daunting prospect, readying his men, but Connor cannot deny a shiver of excitement—this was always meant to be his place, riding at the head of a great army. 

Jack watches the proceedings with a look that Connor cannot parse—intense and strangely longing. 

The night before their departure, they feast. Jack drinks, heavily from his own cup and, when offered, from Connor’s. When they retire, he stumbles on the stairs. 

It is not a moment after their chamber door closes that he is embracing Connor, leaning into him heavily. Much as Connor has dreamt of the moment, there is something strange and off-putting about his heavy breath, his wild eyes. Connor has never seen him drink to excess. 

“Husband,” he says gently, pushing him away. “If something troubles you, please speak of it.” 

Jack stares for a long moment. “Take me with you,” he says, and then all at once, “let me fight with you, let me—” 

“You know it is not possible.” 

“I could be of use to you, I am a strong fighter.” 

“You are of use to me,” Connor reassures, and steers him towards the bed, where he can crumple, “now more than ever. The country needs a regent in my absence and I could not bear to trust anyone else.” 

“In your stead, then,” Jack pleads. “You are too important to go—I should hardly be missed if I fall.” 

Connor still has hold of his shoulders; he only just represses the urge to shake his husband, hard. “Do not say such a thing,” he says, harsher than he ought. “Do not even speak of such an event.” 

Jack bows his head. He looks so weary, Connor cannot bear the sight. “I apologize. I know even thinking of your death is treason of the highest order.” 

“I speak not of my death, but of yours,” Connor tells him. “I should not admit it, but. Jack. I would be bereft, without you. I cannot bear the thought. And I am loathe to leave you—indeed, I would not dare leave the capital, except that the thought of you serving as regent, you who I know to be capable and true, it gives me such comfort.” 

Connor puts a hand to his jaw, tilts his head up. “You may be angry with me in a few days, for leaving you behind,” he says. “I would be, in your place. But please—don’t send me off angry. I could not abide it.” 

Jack breathes, measured, and meets his eyes. “I am not angry with you,” he says finally. “I see the sense of it all. I just—I detest the futility of my own situation.” 

“I wish you did not think so low of yourself,” Connor says. “If you only knew how I rely upon you.” 

Jack breaks their gaze. “I suppose you ought to take me to bed,” he says, instead of responding. “It may be many weeks before you have the opportunity again.” 

XIX. 

In the morning, they couple again and then separate, reluctantly on Connor’s part, to dress. By the time Connor’s army has assembled and he has gathered his knights in the courtyard for a formal farewell, Jack is composed, aloof. The whole court is watching when Connor embraces him. 

“If anything should happen,” he says, just for his husband’s ears, “my cousin will inherit. He is expecting this outcome, and so I charge you with ensuring that this does not happen prematurely.” 

“Your cousin is a half-wit and a drunk,” Jack says lowly. 

“Then it is a good business that I do not intend to die,” Connor retorts. He can’t help but catch Jack’s lips quickly before he pulls back, kissing him softly despite the eyes on them. “Will you write to me?” 

“I will keep you appraised of all matters of state,” Jack says, which is not the sort of letter that Connor was speaking of, but Leon is shooting him impatient looks from where he is already mounted, so Connor says nothing. 

Jack’s face is still tight, when Connor rides out. He had said last night that Jack was allowed to be angry once he was alone, but he had rather hoped to avoid the situation altogether. He looks back over his shoulder, just once. Most of the court has returned to their duties, but Jack is still watching them ride out, Sir Noah faithfully at his right shoulder. 

“Godspeed,” he calls, and Connor rides off to war. 

XX.

The campaign begins slowly. Connor’s army camps near the border and then the waiting begins, the waiting and the planning that must come before a battle. 

Connor receives letters from his husband daily—mostly matters of the court. Once, Jack closes with, _I have been thinking of you daily and praying for your safe return. _He signs it only, _the Prince Regent. _

The evening before the first battle will begin, Connor over indulges with his men. The camaraderie is important and he loves his knights, but he is no longer one of them, their equal. He retires early, facing the prospect of a cold bed, and feels very much alone. 

His husband’s latest letter still rests on the table. Before he can think better of it, he begins a reply— 

_ I dreamt of you last night, _Connor writes. _In this dream, I opened your chest and took your heart out, and put it next to mine inside my own ribcage. Yet I did not give you my own heart back, but crawled inside the hollow space in your chest and curled there and felt safe. I did not realize until I woke that this dream left you with no heart while I had two; yet when I think of you I think perhaps I have left my heart behind. It is you who have two, and I none at all. _

He leaves the letter on his table when he rides out for the battle. When he returns, bloody and sore and covered in mud, the letter seems foolish in the cold light of day, such affection expressed purposeless and unreturned. There is another unopened letter from Jack that has arrived, set out on his table. It begins only, _To __Your __M__ost __S__overeign M__ajesty— _

He flushes and puts his first letter aside, and begins anew, _To our respected husband the_ _P__rince __R__egent— _

XXI. 

Connor dreams of him again and again and cannot help it; when he wakes he thinks of him as often. Letter after humiliating unsent letter pile in the corner of his trunk, the only way he has found to cast his husband out of his mind and focus on the matter at hand. He certainly cannot dispatch them, nor for whatever reason can bring himself to burn them. 

Days spent on campaign are long and grueling and they are making little progress. His tent is vast and empty. 

_ I told you once that I gave you the best parts of me. I can only hope now that you have kept them. War is bleak and violent and I fear I have lost whatever goodness I once had. My only hope, sweetheart, is returning to your side and discovering that you have kept the best pieces of me with you after all, safe and peaceful and kept close to your heart. You are my best guardian and I pray that you have kept me safe. _

Jack’s letters, daily and dry, are a Godsend. He writes that Connor’s cousin has moved to court in expectation of a coronation when Connor should fall, that the cook’s son has broken his arm, and all news of every kind in between. Once he writes, _I_ _admit I count the hours to your safe return. _Another time, _I hav__e said a prayer for your victory again tonight but __I pray most heartily above all that God shall keep you and return you safely to __your rightful place at court _ _ . _

The sentiments are tepid, motivated—Connor has no doubt—by Jack’s diminished prospects should his husband fall in battle. Still, the words are a balm to him and he cannot help but treasure each note, though he keeps his own replies equally dull and pours his heart only into those notes that are folded and stored in the corner of his trunk. 

_ I think of you each night__, Jack. I__ pray for you, that the Lord may bless you and selfishly that the Lord may keep you long enough that I may see you again. I have wasted hours on the memory of your face and days on thoughts of your smile, rare though it be. I think each moment of your hands, your lips, your eyes. I wonder fruitlessly what might have been had I agreed to bring you with me, what a blessing you might have been on the field and in my bed. It is selfish of me and I think of it regardless. I know the gentleness in your violent bones and the violence in your gentle touch__, know them better than I think you believe I do__. __I have spent so long watching you and learning you. __I miss all the ways in which you touched me and all the ways in which you refused. Each day I ride forth to the monotony of war and hear ‘God save the King’—for myself I pray that God may do what he will with the King so long as God should save the prince. _

Connor’s men are hungry and dirty and weary. The war has lasted overlong and still the opponent will not surrender, still his advisors council that the enemy must be weary and hungry twice over. 

Still, battles rage on. 

XXII. 

It is an early morning, clear and cold, that word comes of the ambush on Connor’s own palace. The rider is young and exhausted; he has been galloping since yesterday afternoon to deliver the message. His horse is half-dead. He stammers out—_the Prince—_and Connor offers him drink in his own tent. 

The boy puts away a healthy amount of ale. “Your Majesty,” he begins. Sir Leon has assumed a post in front of the flap of his tent. Connor’s councilors gather round and are rejected entry. 

“Tell me of the Prince Regent,” he demands. 

“The Prince Regent is well,” the boy says, “he has led a great victory and the capital rejoices.” 

Connor refills his glass and puts a slab of bread before him. “Speak on,” he says. 

“Yesterday morn,” the boy begins, “a small party of enemy warriors attempted to breach the castle walls. The Prince Regent first repelled their attack from the castle walls, then led a small party of fighters out to battle. Though they were greatly outnumbered and unprepared for the fight, the Prince Regent’s forces were victorious. The castle remains in his hands and your enemy has lost a number of his best fighters, his brother among them.” 

“Good news indeed,” Leon says. “On our front as well. The battle will be much more easily taken with the opposing troops divided.” 

Connor slips the boy a coin and sends him off to rest. “We must finish this,” he tells Leon grimly. “Today.” 

XXIII. 

Connor returns to his capital weary and filthy; though his people turn out on the sides of the roads, it is as sad a victory party as he can remember. 

When they draw level with the courtyard, Connor straightens his spine. His remaining courtiers have turned out to watch his return; Jack stands at the front of them, back straight, wearing a circlet and a crisp white tunic. 

Connor dismounts; wretched as he is, he feels as though he could collapse to his knees before the whole of his court. It is Jack, though, who bows lowly to him—“Your Majesty,” he says, “the castle is yours.” 

Connor cannot help but embrace him. He is clean and strong and whole; he thinks of the messenger telling him how staunchly Jack had defended his castle and nearly falls against him. Jack catches his weight. 

Conscious as he is of the eyes of his court, Connor allows himself the indulgence. After a moment, Jack rights him. “I have ordered your chambers prepared,” he says, a rescue. “Come, you must rest.” 

The moment they are through the door, Connor’s knees buckle under him. He has never knelt for a lesser being than God, but he kneels before his husband. 

“Connor—” 

“Allow me,” Connor says, glancing up. His husband is strong and healthy and hale; Connor can feel nearly the same before him. His hip is a warm foundation for his forehead to rest. The laces on his breeches part easily under Connor’s fingers. He smells like himself. “I beg of you, allow me this, please.” 

There are fingers in his hair then, gentling around his jaw. “It is I, who should kneel before you,” Jack says, “begging your forgiveness.” 

“There is nothing I would not forgive,” Connor breathes. “Glad as I am to see you.” 

It is the work of an instant to tilt his head towards Jack’s arousal. Though he never has before, Connor mouths at him, still half-hard. It is warm and strangely comforting. 

“My god,” Jack says, blasphemous, and Connor takes him fully into his mouth. 

XXIV. 

Jack orders a bath drawn for him. The water is quickly dirtied but remains warm enough against his skin that Connor is loathe to leave it, especially when Jack dismisses the servants who brought it. He washes Connor’s limbs himself, sponging off his muddy arms and taking a brush to his fingernails and running sure fingers through Connor’s tangled hair. 

It takes two changes of water before Connor feels clean; when he steps out of the tub, Jack remains on his knees before him. 

“Come to bed,” Connor near begs him. 

Jack shakes his head. “I cannot,” he says. He looks up through his lashes, penitent, a look so strange on him that Connor goes cold. “I told you before—there is something I must beg of you.” 

“I hope there is nothing so dire that you need beg of me on your knees,” Connor says. 

“Only your forgiveness.” 

There were women here, while he was on campaign. Sir Noah of the bonny face. Perhaps Jack was on his knees before one of them, while Connor was bleeding in the field. His throat flames; he swallows hard. 

“Then beg it.” 

Jack puts his hand on the back of Connor’s legs, grasping his calves where they are still damp from the bath. The touch jolts through him and he refuses to acknowledge it. He is terrified and fearless. He had felt more powerful on his own knees. 

“Tell me,” Connor says, when Jack does not speak. 

Jack breathes in. He doesn’t look up. “I sent for the boy,” he says. 

“The boy,” Connor echoes. 

“The boy in the north, who bears you a striking resemblance.” 

Connor blinks and remembers a child with golden hair. “Come to bed,” he says again. “I will not have you prostrate yourself any longer.” 

He covers himself with furs and clean linens. Jack perches on the edge of the bed and Connor urges him nearer. 

“The ward of Lord Stone,” Connor ventures. “You called him to court?” 

Jack nods. “When we first there, I wondered,” he begins. “I am wise to the ways of powerful men. And who could the child’s father be, to hide his identity so fiercely, if not a powerful man? So first I asked your treasurer for an account of payments made monthly and indeed, your crown was funding the boy’s education at the manor.” 

“You thought he was my child?” 

“Yes, at first,” Jack says. “But you had not been north in a half-decade, and I did not think you were capable of enough deceit to deny the boy to his face, nor to mine. But Connor—you are not the only king who could have made provisions for a son. The payments came directly from your own purse but you did not know of them. He could not have been anything other than a king’s son paid with a legacy began upon the child’s birth. When I wrote Lord Stone with my suspicions, he confirmed.” 

Jack watches him for a moment, waits for him to draw the conclusion that Jack had drawn so many months earlier. “My brother’s child,” Connor says. “I wondered if—but he never indicated that he had children. Not a mention in his will, even.” 

Jack reclines next to him. “There is every chance that your brother meant to provide for him, beyond the allowance. Give him an upbringing, even recognize him at court when he was older. Lord Stone felt sure he would have.” 

“But he did not.” 

Jack quirks his head, as if conceding the point. “Perhaps his illness struck too rapidly. Regardless. I felt that the boy should be here among his family. And had anyone else found his identity, he surely would have been in danger during the war, an opportunity ripe to attack the crown directly. But it is for that decision to summon him that I must beg your forgiveness, and for failing to write you of the matter though I feared a note’s interception by the enemy. If I have overstepped we can send him away at once.” 

Connor watches his face, the chagrin there. Remembers Jack teaching the boy to hold a seat astride a horse. “I imagine he has grown attached.” 

Jack inclines his head and fails to hide a soft smile. “He is an orphaned child. He is attached to affection. His warden was kind and his nurse very capable, but he has not had a true family.” 

Connor turns in towards his body. “How could you have overstepped,” he says slowly, “when I granted you reign of my kingdom?” 

“Because your authority over matters of the family cannot be given,” Jack says. 

“And yet you have acted in the best interest of my family, of blood if not of flesh. Your good deeds on my behalf only double. I thought I should spend the rest of my life thanking you for defending my castle, now I find that you have defended my family as well.” 

“If I have your forgiveness, I will accept it as thanks enough and say no more of the matter.” 

“You have it, and freely given,” Connor says. He presses his thumb to Jack’s mouth; when he kisses his husband, Jack kisses back with rather more abandon than he remembers. 

“I missed this mouth,” Connor murmurs despite himself. 

“Did you?” 

“I missed these hands, this face, this body.” 

“You didn’t say,” Jack returns, “your letters spoke of naught but warfare.” 

“I did not know if you would receive such letters gladly,” Connor admits. “I did not wish to embarrass you with expressions of unwanted love.” 

Jack stills against him. “I did not know love existed,” he says, “but where it does, I am sure it is not unwanted.” 

Connor watches his own hands against his husband’s waist, watches the pressure of them carve divots into bare skin as if he is clinging in hopes of claiming something. A warmth washes over him; he can scarcely bear it. His eyes tear and he embraces Jack fully before he can stop himself. His husband is perhaps not that much broader than himself, but he feels it when he accepts Connor into his arms. For the first time in eons, Connor feels sheltered. 

“I dreamt of you, each night,” Connor tells him. “I went to war and thought of you. I heard of your victories and thought of you. I breathed and thought of you.” 

Jack kisses him. Rarely before has Connor received his affections, but he does so gladly now. 

“I wrote dozens of letters I could not bring myself to send, so thoroughly had I flayed myself open to you in their writing.” Connor admits into his neck. 

“Am I permitted to read them now?” 

“No,” Connor says. “I have just told you of their contents, and even if I had not I could not bear the thought.” 

“I thought of you, as well,” Jack says. “I dared not put it in letters lest they be intercepted by your enemy or your own council. But I did miss you. I found the court very empty without you.” 

“You managed so admirably I will be surprised if my people wish me back on the throne at all,” Connor says. 

Jack pulls back. The look on his face is strange. “I did not miss you in matters of politics,” he says, but ducks his head to mouth at Connor’s neck before Connor can ask him to say more. 

XXV. 

Connor rises late the next day. He had woken, early, when Jack had rolled out of bed. 

He’d struggled to open his eyes; Jack had leaned over him, whispered, “rest,” and the prospect had been too enticing to resist. 

Now the sun is high in the sky, the fire has burned down in his hearth. He should have called his council hours ago. 

On the way to his council chambers, he passes the courtyard. Jack is there, sparring. Connor, who had expected him to be in council, pauses in the doorway. Sir Noah sees him first, pauses in his swing to drop his head into a bow. Jack turns then, flushed and sweating, to catch his eye. As Connor edges further in to the courtyard, he sees the boy perched on a bench, watching the fight with wide eyes, fist in his mouth. 

“Your Majesty,” Noah says. 

“Good morning,” Connor says back, though he can’t tear his eyes from the child. Jack follows his gaze. 

“Say hello, Collin,” he prompts. 

“Hello,” the boy says softly, squirming. 

“May I break your fast with you?” Jack asks, and at Connor’s nod, tells the boy, “go with Noah. He will help you with your pony today.” 

“I expected to meet with council this morning, but they have not convened,” Connor says, as Jack leads him to the dining hall. 

“You have just returned from war,” Jack says, “you were exhausted. I told them that you would meet with them tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Connor says. He is ravenous, suddenly. Jack sits next to him but does not take any food from the tray that has been laid out. No doubt, another deed of his husband’s doing. 

“I apologize if I overstepped.” 

Connor swallows. “You have not, and I would have you stop acting as though you have no place here.” 

Jack flushes again, or perhaps his color is still high from exercise. He does not answer. 

“The boy seems to have settled in well,” Connor remarks after a moment. “He is fond of you, I can tell. He is terrified by me.” 

“He’s shy,” Jack says, “he will warm up to you. I believe Lord Stone told him to respect his King rather than love him, which does not help matters.” 

“Ought I—" Connor begins, and looks around. A maid is sweeping in the far corner, but they are otherwise alone. “Should I tell him, that I am his uncle? Or tell the council? I do not know what—I cannot see what is best to do about it.” 

Jack opens his mouth, closes it again. Connor knows him well enough now, to know that he would never have summoned the boy without a plan, but as long as he thinks it is not his place to advise he will never breathe a word of it. 

“What would you do, were you in my place,” Connor invites. 

“The boy is illegitimate,” Jack says, looking at his hands. “But as he is your brother’s only child, and as you shall never have one, there are those who would want him reinstated to the line of succession.” 

“I would have to legitimize him, formally,” Connor says. 

“Yes. But if you do, of course, it could be argued that his claim is greater than yours. His youth is a blessing—you can raise him as your own child and heir if you choose to name him such, teach him to govern and instill in him good principles. But as soon as you formally name an heir, whoever it should be, certain factions will flock to that person, attempt to sway them, perhaps attempt a coup.” 

“Yes,” Connor acknowledges, “but as you have greater experience with palace intrigue than I, I trust you have thought of that as well.” 

“If it were my choice,” Jack says, and meets his eyes. “I would tell the child that he is your brother’s. Tell council. Do not make a formal declaration, but word will spread and all will know that he is of your brother’s line. But do not legitimize him, nor name him as your heir, if he is indeed your choice. Protect him from that expectation. Take both actions in your will, tell the boy in confidence when he is older, but shelter him as long as you can.” 

“You have thought of everything,” Connor marvels. 

Jack looks away, shrugs one shoulder. “I cannot have thought of everything. There is much that must be left up to fate and to God. But as I told you, the thought of an heir has been weighing heavy on my mind, more so since you left for war. I am happy to have been able to see things settled after all.” 

XXVI. 

In the morning, after council finishes discussing matters of war—a new treaty, reparations from the enemy, care for the wounded—Connor clears his throat. 

“There is a matter closer to the heart that we must still discuss.” 

Jack’s gaze is steady, when Connor meets it, Jack nods his head. 

“You will all have become aware of the boy recently sent here to become a warden of the court. For some time now he has been receiving payment from the crown for his rearing in the north, but my husband and I have decided it is long since time he came to be raised here. You see, I have recently learned that the boy is my late brother’s child.” 

A murmur strikes up around the room, exclamations of shock from all except the prince and the treasurer. 

“Lord Stone has confirmed his parentage, illegitimate though he is,” Connor says, raising his voice. “I have already informed the child that the prince and I intend to raise him as loving uncles as I’m sure my brother would have wished.” 

“Your Majesty—" the secretary pipes up, “surely you cannot see the danger of harboring someone so close to you whose right to the crown may be debated.” 

Connor bows his head. “I do see the danger, my Lord. Surely there is more danger to come from every quarter, not the least of which is a traitor hoping to place the child on the throne. But I also see a little boy, orphaned, who is in great need of a loving family. He may be a threat to the crown, but he is only that because he is, first and foremost, my only living relative. I respect your perspective as always, but I must inform you that my decision to raise my nephew in my own house will not be swayed.” 

He looks around the table again. Some are nodding, a few frowning. He looks at Jack last, and is reassured by his smile. 

“The boy will assume the honorary title of Lord,” Connor says, “and there is one more matter along those lines I must discuss.” 

This, Jack was not expecting. The smile vanishes from his face, but Connor steels himself, continues on, “my husband the prince has shown himself in every respect to be a wise councilor, a deserving ruler and perhaps most importantly in recent months, a capable regent. Had I indeed married his esteemed sister, she would have assumed the title of Queen upon our marriage. I think it strange, then, that my husband has continued on as prince when he should by rights be King. I have spent many months thinking on this matter.” 

There is another murmur, louder. “At this, I must protest,” the secretary says. 

“Yes, and I as well,” Jack says, which quiets the room. He looks—not angry, but confused, perhaps. 

“I am afraid you cannot,” Connor says. “I have already written and signed the decree, Your Majesty. And I will admit to an ulterior motive. I have not named an heir, yet. But when I do, should this person prove to be incapable of ruling upon my death, there is only one man who I could trust to act as regent for my interests. Therefore, I have also named King John regent in whatever situation may demand it while he lives. Should I die tomorrow or when my heir is in middle age, I trust that this order will ensure that you will always treat my husband with the solemnity and respect that he deserves as my King and equal.” 

The room is silent. Jack, scarlet, eventually bows his head. “Your trust is most appreciated,” he says, “I hope that I will continue to earn it.” 

He stays seated while the room clears, seated even when Connor rounds the table to stand behind him, put his hands on his husband’s shoulders. 

“You see,” he says softly, and leans down to kiss Jack on the cheek, “I, too, have been thinking of how to see things settled.” 

“You should not have done that,” Jack says, but he brings his hands up to rest upon Connor’s. “I have no need for a greater title.” 

“But I have a great need,” Connor replies, “to demonstrate your importance to my reign. Your importance to me.” 

XXVII. 

Jack is reclining against the pillows when Connor retires for the night, reading a letter with such focus that he does not start until Connor leans into chest, settling his head on his husband’s shoulder. 

“My sister,” Jack explains, and holds the paper briefly to his lips. “She writes that she is expecting a child—next month, or perhaps the month after.” 

“A happy letter, then,” Connor says. “You must include my congratulations when you write back.” 

“She has asked that I go to her court,” Jack says softly, and he drops the letter, takes Connor’s hand in his. “For the christening, or for the—” 

Connor squeezes his hand. Childbirth is a dangerous matter, for both mother and babe. 

“Are you asking permission? You do not need it, my King.” 

“No,” Jack says. “But I—until the child is born, healthy, I am still her heir. If something were to happen, she wants me in her court to assume the throne immediately. That is the other reason she has requested I go.” 

Connor tilts his head back. Jack is not looking down at him, gaze lost in middle distance. “If you were to assume the throne, God forbid. Would you. I mean—you would stay in your court, I assume? And I in mine?” 

“I haven’t thought of it.” 

Connor pushes away from him. “And our marriage would be annulled, most likely. What good is a husband in a distant land who cannot give you heirs?” 

“Connor,” Jack says, softly. He takes his hand again. “I did not mean to upset you. I pray for the safe delivery of my sister and her child for many reasons. One of which is that I have no desire to inherit her kingdom. To rule there, alone, without you, it would be…” 

“Unbearable,” Connor finishes. Jack nods, gaze downcast. 

“And if the worst should happen, we will find a solution. Split time between courts, perhaps, or pay frequent visits. But I would not—will not ever—ask for an annulment.” 

Connor blinks. “Truly?” 

“Truly, despite my early feelings—if you think I have not come to love you, you must be blind, Your Majesty.” 

“Oh,” Connor says, because he cannot say anything else. There is nothing left to do but kiss him, long and deep and breathless. “I love you.” 

“Indeed,” Jack says when he pulls back, rumpled and pink-cheeked. “I do not think I would like my odds for two happy marriages regardless.” 

“God willing, you’ll never have to find out.” 

Jack smiles at him, rare and earnest. “I wanted to ask you,” he says, and there’s something shy about his gaze, “would you consider joining me? You’ve never seen my country. There are many things I would like to show you, as you have introduced me to your own lands.” 

“I suppose the diplomatic thing to do,” Connor says, “would be to congratulate the Queen and meet her new heir in person. Though the trip may be long, surely my council can maintain order in the weeks of my absence.” 

“Surely, they would see the logic in that,” Jack agrees. “If the journey is for the good of the kingdom. Though—if you cannot come, I would expect a great number of letters from you. Preferably like those that you have still not let me read.” 

Connor flushes. “Then I must certainly come. I cannot possibly be expected to embarrass myself in revealing the full depth of my yearning for my own husband.” 

“A shame,” Jack whispers, “as I may have been persuaded to write back.” 

Connor kisses him again. “That, I should very much like to see.” 

XVIII. 

“There is a castle, near the seaside,” Jack murmurs. Connor can hear his voice rumbling where his ear is over Jack’s heart. There are fingers combing through his hair; his eyes keep fluttering shut. “We have a great deal of coast. Your country has none, so perhaps you have not seen the sea.” 

Connor shakes his head. 

“You will not believe the beauty of it. The vastness and the power. I could spend days staring at the water. That palace was always my favorite, growing up. I’d like to take you there, to show you. I believe that you would enjoy it.” 

Connor makes a low sound of assent in his throat. He is half asleep, having spent a long day preparing for their journey tomorrow, and Jack laughs at him. 

“Sleep, now,” he says. “And I will tell you about the sea.” 

XXIX. 

The castle by the sea is quiet, quaint. They travel there alone, sending most of their retinue on ahead to court, and spend the day watching the water. 

“Someday,” Connor says into his husband’s shoulder. “We must bring Collin here.” 

“Perhaps when he is older,” Jack replies, and tightens his arm around his husband’s waist. “He has much to see in his uncle’s kingdom before he travels abroad.” 

“You are his uncle as well,” Connor says. “Besides. He ought to know his cousin, the future Queen. It is diplomatically sound that they should meet.” 

“And diplomacy is the only reason?” Jack asks, teasing. 

Connor shrugs. “You are happy here,” he says. “We shall return as often as you wish, for I have vowed to make you happy.” 

Jack does not return his gaze, the clearest sign that he means to say something that will make Connor blush. “The castle has nothing to do with it,” he says. “I am merely happy at your side.” 

XXX. 

_ To my dear and most beloved husband King John on this, the anniversary of our wedding—please find enclosed twelve incriminating and highly embarrassing missives regarding the earnestness of my love, written in great emotional turmoil on the battlefield. Though you may find the sentiments somewhat overwrought please consider the possibility of my imminent death during this period and perhaps more importantly the length of time since _ _ last _ _ I had shared your bed. I gift these freely to you only with the expectation that they will not be shared with those who God has not ordained as my lawful wedded husband, most especially those at the court who may have offered you payment in the form of wine or won jousts for their contents__ for I have vowed that Sir Leon never know the true depths of my affections__. I would be most gratified for an answer to the sentiments __herein__, __belated as they are, __and may perhaps __reply __with a second volume of equal though perhaps less violent declarations than this first. _

_ In the case that you fail to interpret the meaning of this gift— _ _ I love you, sweetheart. _

_ Your husband, the King _

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo.... this is going to appeal to two (2) people in the world besides me, but man I hope those two enjoy it. I've been thinking for months about how Connor "thrust into responsibility" McDavid and Jack "shoulda been me" Eichel might work in one of my favorite super niche tropes: arranged marriage. This is tragically hand-wavey on the history so plz forgive me for the vague medieval-ness of it all. I was interested in how to get around the inheritance issue with the marriage of two men in the fake middle ages, but probably nobody else cares about the politics... so sorry for the extra 10K. This thing was supposed to be like... 1,000 words. Oops. 
> 
> I hope to hear from those two people!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Heavy Lies the Crown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22574215) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)


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